


A Beautiful Sight (We're Happy Tonight)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Twelve Fics of Christmas 2020 [8]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Family Fluff, First Christmas, Fluff and Humor, Married Life, Multi, Parent-Child Relationship, Team Flash and the Rogues as a family, Team as Family, light banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Michael Bartholomew Rory celebrates his first Christmas.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart, Cisco Ramon/Lisa Snart, Mick Rory/Caitlin Snow
Series: Twelve Fics of Christmas 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043328
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	A Beautiful Sight (We're Happy Tonight)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rest Your Head Close to My Heart (Never to Part)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26294614) by [NoelleAngelFyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre). 



> I recommend reading the fic that inspired this piece first, just to get the context, but this can probably be read on its own if you're just looking for a bit of Christmas family bonding fluff. :)
> 
> Title from "Winter Wonderland". Kudos are love!

Though neither ready to walk or talk, Michael Bartholomew Rory, affectionately known as “Mickey,” has no problem declaring his wants in proud fashion, and this morning is no exception: he’s a wriggling little worm of discontent with tiny feet and fists banging out general cacophony in the kitchen. Breakfast is finished, and any delay in being removed from his seat is intolerable.

“Gracious,” Caitlin sighs, hands deep in dishwater and loose strands of hair tumbling with no consideration in her eyes, “you definitely inherited your father’s lack of patience.”

“Not lack of patience,” Mick huffs; with barely an effort, he scoops Mickey up in one motion and tosses him high in the air in the next, “just high standards.”

He tosses the baby again, though never so high that there’s a threat of injury, and Mickey shrieks with delight, “Ain’t that right?” Mick grins as his son claps little hands and wiggles in such a way that declares his desire for more, “Yeah. You tell your mom I gave you high standards for life.”

“And you had the nerve to ask why I said we were one and done.” Caitlin rolls her eyes, smears some hair across her forehead with an awkward brush of a shoulder, “Any more of your ‘high standards’ to pass around, and I’ll be declared an uncivilized heathen.”

“Not on my watch.” He kisses her neck (Mickey takes advantage of the proximity to tug at her loosely-tied waves) then adjusts the baby in his arms, “Now stop fussin’. Gang’ll be here soon, and it makes Red anxious when you’re like this.”

“Yes, dear.” She’s only _partially_ cheeky this time, but he still pops her indecently low on the hip for it. Mickey is too young to technically appreciate the gesture, so she doesn’t bother giving Mick grief for it. He wouldn’t listen, even if she did.

Lisa and Cisco are first to arrive; the former absconds with Mickey not two seconds after they’ve stepped over the doormat and leaves Cisco under the weight of what looks like half of Santa’s sleigh.

“Did we not have a conversation about going overboard?” Caitlin’s eyebrows are high as she watches Mick relieve Cisco of his burden.

“You did. Several, in fact.” He pants, looking quite exhausted from the plight, “To which Lisa replied that as godmother it was her God-given right to spoil Mickey on his birthday, at Christmas, and any other holiday she deems worthy of as much.”

“Oh. Well. Who am _I_ to question what rights God hands out?” Caitlin doesn’t even try to hide the eye-roll, even as she’s helping Cisco out of his coat, “The impropriety alone. …I suppose I’m left to hope Barry isn’t nearly as liberal.”

“Probably would be,” Mick reappears with their son safely ensconced in his arms, “but he decided to marry a tight-ass with the purse strings.”

“ _Mick_.” If he wants to get handsy in the kitchen, Caitlin is willing to oblige, but she draws the line at profanity in front of the child. He grunts some version of an apology and cracks a smile at the way Mickey is examining his week-old stubble with an air of fascination.

Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings again and Caitlin gets scooped up in a massive hug as soon as she opens the door, “Somehow, I always forget this is the time of year that turns you into an over-sized kid.” She laughs as Barry twirls her lightly in place, then sets her back in place, “Merry Christmas, Barry.”

“Merry Christmas,” he doesn’t even bother to deny the description, “Has Lisa relinquished custody of our godson yet?”

“Mick’s been keeping him close to the vest. Something about Lisa not handling our son with enough delicacy.” They share an amused grin at the irony, that Mick sees absolutely nothing wrong with tossing his infant son in the air like a football but becomes utterly distressed if Lisa isn’t ‘properly’ supporting Mickey’s little head, “I see you were more restrained with the gifts than she was.”

Barry rolls his eyes, “Yeah, well, _someone_ ,” he tosses the exaggerated tone over his shoulder, “doesn’t believe in a couple small purchases for the holidays, but thinks it’s cute to steal a half-million-dollar necklace for his sister’s birthday.”

“It’s called priorities, darling.” Len makes a point to elbow Barry out of the doorway, then shrugs out of his parka – for once an item of practicality rather than dramatic flair – and hangs it neatly on the coat rack, “And there was nothing ‘small’ about half the items you were eyeing online.”

Barry, no doubt, had a very good response about the items Len eyes on a regular basis (online or otherwise) but gets distracted by a happy little coo coming from Mick’s lap. Mickey gurgles and reaches out for his godfather, giggling when Barry’s forward rush tussles the downy brown curls atop his little head.

“Just tell me you brought the good stuff.” Caitlin hears Mick grumble, obviously meant only for Barry’s ears, but she isn’t entirely convinced Len didn’t catch part of that before walking into the kitchen to find his sister.

“In the cooler.” Barry grins up at him and tickles Mickey’s belly through the fire-engine red onesie, “Two six-packs.”

“Atta boy.” Mickey makes a fine attempt to crawl across his father’s lap but falls a little short at the finish line and flops like a fish into Barry’s waiting arms. He blinks a couple times, then frowns intently at the traveled path between his father’s legs and his godfather’s arms, like he’s trying to determine just where he went wrong.

“You’ll get it, buddy.” Barry kisses his cheek, “Trust me, you’ve got _plenty_ of time to get it right.”

“And speaking of _time_ ,” Lisa chirps, bouncing a little in place with her arms around Caitlin’s shoulders, “when can we open presents?”

“We should probably eat first.” Len has a smirk that everyone recognizes as the prelude to something extremely sassy, “We’d starve to death before the kid gets through a third of what you bought for him.”

“You can just take your Scroogey self to the corner.” Lisa huffs with mild dramatics, “It is a _crime_ against nature if the first Christmas is anything less than memorable.”

“No fear of that.” Mick huffs, casting an eye over the wrapped gifts which have now exploded all over the living room, “So how much of this crap do I gotta assemble?”

“I can help with that.” Barry offers, only to be cuffed upside the head in time with Len’s audible snort.

“You’re not allowed near power tools ever again.” There’s a story there, which Caitlin will absolutely _demand_ be told later, maybe once Mickey is put down for his nap and it’s just the adults, and clearly the memory is fresh because Barry throws Len a look of utmost betrayal, “Let Cisco help. He’s the engineer.”

Cisco mumbles something about first having to be the pack mule and now the architect, then Lisa makes a point to kiss the grumbling right out of his mouth. “Hey, hey, _hey_ ,” Mick covers the baby’s eyes with a hand; Mickey makes a noise of confusion and mild distress, “none of that in front of my kid.”

“Pretty sure this just became a kettle-pot situation.” Barry lightly bats Mick’s hand away and smooths Mickey’s hair back into order, “Considering what you and Caitlin do in front of him.”

“That’s different,” because of course it is, “That’s just educating him on how he got here.”

“Save the sex-ed for middle school, Mick.” Len crouches beside Barry and lets Mickey bat at his cabled sweater. As often as he’s exposed to his extended family, the little one always expresses pure fascination at new textures and sensational experiences: the texture on Len’s sweater, the rasp of his father’s stubble, the way his mother’s hair can change from soft brown to ice-white in a matter of seconds, and especially the crackle of lightning left in Barry’s wake when he leaves the room. The world around him is a source of constant stimulation - mostly because Mick wouldn’t have any ‘first baby’ books in their house – to the point he threatened to start a bonfire if one so much as crossed the threshold.

Caitlin is a little stricter on the dietary aspect, being a doctor and all, but quickly surrendered the fight when it comes to Mickey being secured in his father’s lap during the big football game (‘sports education’), listening to classic rock (‘music lessons’), and going on road trips with Mick and Len which may or may not involve a detour at the local diamond emporium (‘bonding time’).

“Assuming he doesn’t walk in on his parents one of these days.” Lisa smirks, currently perched on Cisco’s lap in an armchair, “ _That_ should give him plenty of education on the subject.”

“That’s how _you_ learned.” Mick grins, watching his son bat insistently at Barry’s jacket lapels, then stare with rapt attention at a bright red bow set in his hands, “’course it wasn’t your parents you walked in on that day.”

“ _That_ will do, thank you.” Len fires a glare across the room decidedly absent any Christmas cheer. This story, at least, everyone is familiar with after a little too much alcohol was passed around during a New Years’ party and Mick provided, with such detail that Len looked fit to strangle him out of sheer mortification, just how thirteen-year-old Lisa received her education on the matter.

“I doubt that will happen.” Caitlin settles on the floor with a rather prim air and opens both hands for her son, who gurgles happily and toddles into her embrace; settled in her lap, Mickey holds out the little bow and pushes it onto her chest with a look of personal achievement, “We’ve invented the novel concept of locked doors in this house.”


End file.
